


Purest Feeling

by joufancyhuh



Series: The Heavens Will Fall [7]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 21:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14293497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joufancyhuh/pseuds/joufancyhuh
Summary: Tempest, he calls her with affection. And her love embodies that, a storm in which he is only a passenger, riding out her mood swings, never knowing what might next trigger that temper of hers. But his love pacifies her, she tells him this much, those brief moments where they exist in the eye of her hurricane.





	Purest Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Well this was a wild ride and also not what I meant to write. Oops. But hey, I wrote something.

She doesn’t need his help, she insists.

The ceremony begins in two hours and she moves slow, intentional, careful, as she irons out her dress blues in her black lace bra and matching underwear, glaring when she catches his eyes on her in the mirror. She doesn’t like _it_ , she tells him when _it_ happens.

The punctuated “it” refers to his admiration of her legs, the fresh scarring that signals where flesh ends and her robotic appendages begin. She refuses to let him touch the seams, to lay kisses on these vulnerable pieces of her. Her reluctance to let him in still manages to cut deep, though he tries his best not to take it personal.

She stays guarded, defiant to her core about letting him in. He practices patience, but she always finds ways to stretch it thin. These times, he loves her the most, because it becomes the hardest moment to continue loving her. He comes so far only for her to retreat back into herself, to shut him out and grow cold.

Commander Shepard, the endless frustration he fell so hard for; loving her never came easy.

Even half-naked, she carries her armor; he thrives off every moment where she allows him to break through.

“I love you,” he says, because he knows he told her this but can’t remember if she responded. He whispers it throughout night, when night terrors come to whisk her away from his gentle grasp, tearing her back into whatever form her demons choose to haunt her. He repeats it in the early dawn, her scrunched up nose a response to the sunlight streaming into her thunderstorm eyes.

 _Tempest_ , he calls her with affection. And her love embodies that, a storm in which he is only a passenger, riding out her mood swings, never knowing what might next trigger that temper of hers. But his love pacifies her, she tells him this much, those brief moments where they exist in the eye of her hurricane.

She scowls from across the room, struggling to bring her freshly-pressed pants over the strange workings of her newest body parts. He reads her face, her annoyance with herself over having trouble with a task so meaningless. She thinks his words a jest, poking fun at her expense. She lies to herself, convincing in her silent argument that she doesn’t need him.

Any attempt to overwrite that programming in her results in total shutdown; he runs into that flaw of hers time and again. Her defense mechanism that bans any form of affection, her way of keeping any potential hurt from affecting her. He loves her, he repeats, holding her gaze, a soft smile on his lips.

The reward comes with a flash of childlike wonder in her eyes, her asking herself how anyone could love someone so flawed, so screwed-up like herself.

She buttons the top of her pants, pale cheeks tinted bright pink, eyes moving to cast down onto their bed, mumbling under her breath. Perhaps cursing him for the way he riles her up like this, how sincere affection itches under her skin like a disease, her words, leaving her scratching until she burns.

She never took well to compliments and she doesn’t with love either. He watches her fumble with the jacket of her dress blues, only glancing up when he takes that first step forward.

The color of the outfit compliments her eyes, the shine of them fearful of his approach, but begging all the same. The same look she gave him that first time on the SR-1. The very one she gives him everyday.

He asked her once what it meant, in one of those rare times that she left her armor behind. She ducked her face into his shoulder, hands pulling him closer. _Don’t make me love you,_ she whispered into the night.

“You look stunning,” he says as he steps closer, and surely the most beautiful sight of them all exists in her standing in her dress blues, the outfit a perfect expression of herself. No slinky black dress, no lingerie, would ever take away the confidence she exudes as Commander Shepard, the woman whose storm he weathers, the woman whose love carries him as much as he carries her.

She blushes to hear it, a tight smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Flatterer,” she teases, a hand playful in its push on his chest.

He repeats himself again as his hand intertwines with hers, raising her knuckles up for a soft caress of his lips. “I love you.” And he reflects on every second it took to reach this moment, every smile, every fight, every time he thought her gone. And here she stands, alive, healthy. Ready to take on anything sent her way.

This time, she smiles and cocks her head to the side. “You’re so weird, you know that?”

“If that’s what it takes to love you, so be it. I’ve made my peace.”

She’s a work in progress, but then again, so is he. She lost her legs in the war, but he almost lost her. And that’s worth all the storms in her gaze. If she is a tempest, then he is the safe harbor to shelter her.


End file.
